


Fresh Meat

by insideimfeelindirty



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bellamy Blake is not a good guy, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Kinkmeme, Please Read The Tags First, Prison, cellmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2019-11-21 12:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18142370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideimfeelindirty/pseuds/insideimfeelindirty
Summary: Please read the tags and warnings first, if this is not your cup of tea just move on.For the kinkmeme prompt:Clarke's been sent to prison for a crime she did not commit, she's one of only 5 females in the entire prison and is by far the most attractive, the only one not crack riddled. Her cellmate is Bellamy Blake, a notorious criminal who offers her protection in exchange for sexual favors. Bonus if Dubious Consent/reluctant extra bonus if one of them falls for the other.Please note there are several graphic descriptions of attempted rape as well as physical violence. The dub-con element is extreme dubious consent.





	1. Chapter 1

Dread fills her gut as the prison transport turns onto a smaller, much bumpier road, each pothole and bump jostling her in her seat. The vinyl bench is wipe clean and slippery, and her prison uniform is made with some sort of polyester blend which only exasperates the problem. Her wrists are red and sore from where her handcuffs have dug into her skin, the chain attached to the seat in front of her the only thing holding her in place. 

 

A sprawling, low building comes into view as the bus clears the thick forest, high electric fences and guard towers surround the perimeter. The bus goes eerily quiet. Even Vera, who is old and a bit mad, quiets her normally incessant and illegible babble. The five of them are being transferred to the men’s max security facility, due to “overcrowding”, but really Clarke knows it’s more like a punishment. She swears she was never involved in that riot, she was trying to put out the fire in the mess hall, not start it. But the warden didn’t see it that way and she’s pretty sure he still harbours some resentment towards her for that foam prank even though that was years ago and also not technically her fault. 

 

“On your feet inmates,” a guard barks, and they all file into an uneven line, hobbling slowly down the stairs in their shackles and into the cool autumn afternoon. She takes a deep breath and fills her lungs with fresh air, the first she’s had in weeks. Three weeks she spent in solitary, but it felt like much longer.

 

She squats and bends as instructed, almost used to the ritual humiliation of cavity searches by now. She’s given a fresh uniform, blue this time, but as scratchy and unflattering as ever. Her hair is checked for lice, which she thankfully has yet to encounter in the prison system, a few pieces of paper filled out and stamped with ruthless efficiency and then they’re ushered into the prison proper.

 

The catcalls start immediately. She gets several invitations to come suck cock, both verbally and figuratively, someone shouts loudly in Spanish that they can smell her pussy from across the hall and an older man with tattoos covering his face drops his trousers and flashes her his entire 12 inch dick. 

 

The hairs on the back of her neck prick up as she realises most of the men zero in on her. Vera has gone back to babbling, occasionally shrieking when the men get loud. No one pays her much attention. Then there’s Indra, who is perhaps the most terrifying human being she’s ever met, who’s allegedly got serval grisly murders on her conscience, if not her sentence, and probably should’ve been in max from the beginning. The look of utter contempt any man who dares address her gets is enough to shut them all up. Then there’s Brell, who’s missing most of her teeth and most of her hair, and finally there’s Tsing, who must have been attractive at one point, but who looks gaunt, has track marks on her arms, neck and between her toes and is currently shaking so badly from abstinence that her eyes can’t even focus. She once tried to shiv Clarke in the shower because she thought Clarke had been hiding drugs from her. 

 

And then there’s her, blonde, blue eyed and actually petrified, but trying hard not to show it. The choir of wolf whistles intensifies the deeper into the prison they go. Vera and Indra are assigned to cell block B, and even though she’s never spoken a word to her, she’s disappointed not to be in the same block as Indra, who is tough enough for the both of them. Brell and Tsing go into cell block C, which leaves her completely alone in cell block D.

 

“Griffin, you’re with Blake in 208”, the guard barks, pointing to the second floor. 

 

Up until this very moment it hadn’t even occurred to her that she’d be sharing a cell with a man. Logically she knew being a woman in a men’s prison wasn’t going a walk in the park, but she hadn’t fully let it sink in just how vulnerable she’d be. She’d figured she would find her people, like she had in the minimum security women’s institution she’d spent the first five years of her sentence in. Here, she stuck out too much. Every set of eyes in the room was trained on her, calculating, expecting. 

 

“Move your feet, inmate,” the guard snaps, baton digging in sharply between her shoulder blades, forcing her to shove her tits forward. 

 

The room erupts in cheers, but she refuses to make eye contact, pushing her chin out and heading towards the stairs, silently hoping her cellmate turns out to be a nice geriatric career criminal who robbed old ladies of their purses or something.

 

Of course Blake is anything but. He’s roughly the same age as her, taller, muscular. His whole frame fills the door of cell 208, his arms stretched over his head onto the door frame blocking her entrance. 

 

“Griffin,” he sneers, his mouth drawn into a lopsided smirk. His arms are huge, his hands look like they’d be capable of choking someone to death. She really hopes they haven’t. 

 

His eyes roam freely up and down her body, lingering on her tits and her mouth. He licks his lips and lets an arm drop to readjust his crotch for a moment too long.

 

“Welcome to your new palace, Princess,” he says, voice low. “I’m on the top bunk.”

 

With a small flourish, he gestures her into the cell, but doesn’t fully move from the door frame. She’s forced to squeeze past him, opting to face him rather than turn her back, and she can feel his semi hard cock brush against her thigh. She forces herself to look up at him, his eyes dark and heavy on her.

 

“Excuse me,” she says, overly sweet and polite, slipping past him.

 

She feels his eyes on her back as she makes up the bottom bunk, arranging her toiletries neatly in the empty cubby. He doesn’t move from the door, but watches her every move. 

 

She ignores him, propping up the pillow and settling in on the bunk with an art book in her lap studiously avoiding looking up at him.

 

“Fresh meat?” A young man with a menacing look on his face slides up to the door, sizing her up.

 

“Yup,” Blake nods, still studying her. 

 

“And they put her with you?” The other man laughs, meanly. “And here I was thinking Warden Pike had no sense of humour.”

 

“Shut up, Murphy,” Blake growls, making the younger man back off, holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture. 

 

A few minutes later a giant thin haired man with glasses and a wiry man with a beard and hard, blue eyes appear in the doorway. The way the shorter man looks at her makes her shrink back against the wall. 

 

“What do you want McCreary?” Blake hisses, standing up straighter, filling the doorway more somehow. 

 

“Just want to welcome our new little friend here,” McCreary smiles, teeth sharp and eyes twinkling with cruelty. “I hope you’re gonna share her equally.”

 

Blake doesn’t budge from the door, staring down the two men until they slide off, scowling. And the rest of the afternoon passes in the same way, most of the block’s inmates passing by their cell to stare her down, to make lewd comments, to intimidate her. Blake just stays by the door, never outright challenging anyone but it’s clear he’s staking a claim and the other inmates seem to respect him enough not to push him.

 

She’s read her Van Gough book three times over by the time he turns towards her.

 

“You know what they all want right?”

 

She’s not dumb, of course she knows. She’s spent the last hours trying to figure out how to protect herself.

 

“They’re tired of their hands and each others assholes,” he continues, moving towards the bed, pausing to hover over her. “Most of them have forgotten what a real woman feels like.”

 

She doesn’t blink, just stares right at him. Never show fear, she repeats to herself.

 

“Pretty little thing like you, perfect tits, sweet little pussy, everyone just wants a taste, Princess.” 

 

She tilts her chin up, throws him a defiant look. She’s not gonna be the plaything for the whole block. 

 

“That’s right, Princess,” he croons, “we’re not gonna let them have a go, are we?”

 

He drops a hand to her knee, rubbing his thumb in small circles over her prison uniform. His hand engulfs her knee, a jagged, silvery scar on the back of it slashing through dark skin. Sweat runs cold on her skin.

 

“You be sweet to me, and I’ll make sure no one bothers you,” he croons, letting his hand travel down her inner thigh. “How about it, baby?”

 

His hand inches further down her thigh, but she clenches her legs together tightly before they reach her cunt.

 

“How about no one bothers me,” she says, amazed at how steady her own voice sounds. 

 

She holds his gaze for as long as she can manage, before sliding past him off the bed and slipping out of the cell door, heart pounding in her chest. 

 

Crass words follow her all the way down the corridor to the toilets, where thankfully she’s alone. She sits on the toilet for several minutes, trying to calm her breathing. When she first arrived in prison she cried in the toilets for an hour straight, then grit her teeth and got on with it. She’s not sure any amount of teeth gritting is going to help her this time. 

 

She’s barely made it out of the toilet stall before she is slammed face first into the bathroom wall. There’s a sickening crunch of teeth against porcelain tile, a trickle of something warm oozing from her nose and an unmistakable metallic taste in her mouth. She can’t move, a vice like grip keeps forcing her head against the wall and her hands can’t find purchase. She can’t see who’s attacking her, but the voice that echoes in the empty bathroom is unmistakable.

 

“Don’t scream, or I’ll make it worse for you,” he hisses, voice cold and hard. McCreary. 

 

Blind panic holds her in place as he forces her legs open with a knee, roughly grabbing at the waistband of her uniform and yanking it down, exposing her bare ass. Tears spring from her eyes and she’s struggling to breathe properly.

 

She hears him rustling with his own clothes, and she tries to buck back against the wall, tries to escape his grip, but he just slams her harder back against the wall. Black spots dance in front of her eyes, and she feels light headed. 

 

“Let her go,” a low voice commands, and she can feel McCrearys fumbling hands falter. 

 

“This doesn’t concern you, Blake,” McCreary hisses, still not letting up on the punishing grip he has on her skull.

 

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Blake says, annoyed, impatient.

 

A beat, and then McCreary finally releases her, pain shooting up the back of her skull. He shuffles off and she finally takes a big breath of air. She scrambles to pull up her pants, but her hands are shaking hard and before she registers what’s happening Blake yanks them up roughly, covering her again.

 

“Let’s go, Griffin,” he mumbles in her ear, before ushering her out of the bathroom.

 

Once back in their cell he gives her toilet paper to shove up her nose and an ice pack for her cheek. There are no broken teeth thankfully, but her head throbs with pain.

 

He studies her with his arms folded over his chest, which makes them look even bigger. There is a small frown on his forehead, like he’s annoyed he had to rescue her.

 

“You know this is just gonna keep happening,” he says, easy. “And not everyone is going to be as fucking obvious about it as McCreary.”

 

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

 

“I don’t need you to protect me,” she says, defiantly, picking out the bloodstained paper from her nose. 

 

“Sure about that, Princess?” The arrogant sneer on his face makes her want to prove him wrong even more, but her head is pounding and the adrenaline is leaving her body. She doesn’t have much of a choice.

 

He turns to leave, and panic starts to rise in her throat. 

 

“Wait.”

 

She wishes he wouldn’t smirk.  

 

“What did you have in mind?” she sighs, swallowing her pride, her dignity and any sense of shame she might still possess. She knows exactly what he has in mind, but is hoping to the last it won’t have to come to that.

 

“I think it’s time you put that pretty little mouth to use, Princess.”

 

He leans down, gripping her jaw firmly. She squirms against the pain. He’s not going to make this easy for her. 

 

“Now?” she splutters, still pressing the ice pack against her cheek. “It hurts.”

 

He takes the ice pack out of her hand and places it on the bunk next to her. 

 

“Gotta show me you really mean it, baby,” he croons, making her stomach turn.

 

He doesn’t wait for her answer, simply kicks the cell door shut, comes to stand in front of her and unceremoniously shoves down his pants. 

 

His cock springs free, already hard. It’s thick and long and reminds her it’s been a long time since she’s had one. She cracks her jaw tentatively, wincing against the pain, but one glance up at him tells her this is the best of all the bad options.

 

She starts slow, licking tentative strokes up his shaft, her arms still slack by her side. She’s trying not to move her jaw too much, but despite the tip of his cock weeping, she knows it’s not going to be enough.

 

“You gotta try harder than that,” he says, unaffected, tilting his hips forward so she’s forced to mouth wider and accept him.

 

Her cheek burns as he pushes his cock past her lips, her jaw screaming in protest. She wraps her lips around his considerable girth and sucks, her hands flying up to his hips to try to control the pace herself. 

 

His breathing staggers as she flattens her tongue against his cock, bobbing her head back and forth rhythmically. He lets her set the pace to begin with, lets her take control as she feels him stiffen up in her mouth. He smells like soap and cigarettes, he tastes like salt and something tangier, something she can only vaguely remember. 

 

“Look at your sweet mouth taking my cock so well,” he pants, his hands grabbing at the edge of the bunk above her. “I knew you’d be fucking sweet to me the minute I saw you, Princess.”

 

She twirls her tongue around the head of his cock, running the tip along the ridge and flicking it back and forth. He cants his hips forward, chasing the feeling, nearly choking her. She pushes her hands back against his hips to keep him where she wants him, but he’s done letting her set the pace.

 

“Don’t hold back on me now baby,” he snarls, grabbing the back of her head and pushing further into her mouth.

 

Her jaw protests and her throat closes around his cock, but she has no choice but to breathe through it and take him. He fucks her mouth with increasing speed, moans loudly when her throat relaxes and lets him all the way down, her nose aching as it bumps against his pubic bone.

 

“Fuck yeah, your mouth feels fucking perfect,” he breathes shakily, loosening his grip on her head a little and letting his head loll back.

 

He inhales sharply and holds his breath, gasping quietly before coming in thick streams down her throat. 

 

He pulls back slowly, stroking a thumb gently over her bad cheek before tucking his softening cock back in his pants. He leaves a small drop of come on her lips, which she quickly licks off without meeting his eyes.

 

He presses the ice pack back on her cheek, and presses a hot, dry kiss to her forehead.

 

“Good girl,” he whispers, too soft. “You’ve got nothing to worry about in here.”

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t sleep all night, hyperaware of his deep, steady breathing, his taste lingering on her tongue. Her mind races, wondering if she’s made it better or worse for herself by giving in to Blake. Her jaw still hurts from McCreary’s assault, her throat is a little sore from having a cock rammed up against her tonsils. She can’t decide which is worse. 

 

The next morning at breakfast Blake waves her over to his table, a short flick of his wrist that reminds her of someone snapping their fingers. And she willingly goes. She sees raised eyebrows at other tables, a low muttering rippling through the room as she sits down beside Blake. She can almost feel the power dynamic in the room change, Blake’s dominance growing as if he’s moved another chess piece across the board. She’s a pawn in a game she doesn’t quite understand. 

 

McCreary stares at her like he wants to hurt her and at Blake like he wants to kill him, but he leaves it at that, stabbing at his beans angrily. Blake barely looks up. Somehow she feels fractionally safer. 

 

“You gonna eat that?” Murphy asks, but doesn’t bother waiting for her answer before grabbing her tray and finishing the breakfast she’d been playing with. 

 

“You should keep your strength up, sweetheart,” Blake mutters under his breath, giving her a meaningful stare. She licks her lips without meaning to, making him chuckle darkly. 

 

When he stands up and leaves, she scuttles after him, hating herself for it. 

 

She stays within spitting distance to him all day. At rec time she makes a beeline for Indra and Vera, thankful for any familiar face, feeling Blake’s eyes on her the whole time. If Indra has anything to say about the bruise blooming on her cheek, she keeps it to herself. She stays in the cell with Blake most of the day, greedily helping herself from the book cart and losing herself in any world that is different than hers. He only reads greek mythology.

 

After dinner he gets bored and restless, watching the rec room from the door of their cell. Apprehension has been building in her all day, wondering when, where and how. The later in the day it gets, the more tense she gets. Her nails are bitten down to their stumps, her hands jittery as she turns the pages of her book. 

 

“What are you in for?” he asks, startling her enough to make her jump.

 

“Vehicular manslaughter,” she says, managing to keep her voice even. He raises an eyebrow at her, in surprise or respect, she can’t tell which.

 

“I didn’t do it,” she rushes to add, her eyes flickering down to her lap. She’ll go to her grave protecting Abby, but somehow she doesn’t want Blake’s brand of prison respect. 

 

“Of course you didn’t, Princess,” he scoffs, turning away from the door and sliding down on the chair opposite her. “Pure as the driven snow, aren’t you?”

 

There’s a chill to his voice, at odds with the charm he attempts to paint on his face. His eyes are soft and round, his smile thin, his hands terrifyingly big. 

 

“Why are you here?” she dares to ask, trying to keep him talking. 

 

“Got caught,” he deadpans, dragging the chair closer to her bed, legs scraping loudly against concrete. 

 

“I’m serious,” she says, trying not to shrink back against the pillow as he leans further towards her. 

 

“Murder,” he shrugs, like it’s nothing. A shiver runs through her body, and he notices, sliding a hand up the leg of her pants, running his fingers over her goosebumps. “Don’t worry, Princess, you’re to pretty to kill.”

 

“Do you feel bad about it?” she asks, without really thinking about it. 

 

His hand stops, he sits up straighter and looks her dead in the eye. She keeps reliving the same moment over and over in her head, the sickening crunch of metal against bone, the shattering sound of glass, Abby’s screams and the complete silence that followed. She still feels sick whenever she thinks about it. 

 

“No,” he says, serious. He doesn’t offer any further explanation.

 

He grabs her hips with both hands, dragging her forward so she’s facing him. The corridor outside their cell is quiet, but the door is still wide open. He notices her looking, reads the apprehension on her face.

 

“Don’t make a sound,” he warns, pulling her hips roughly to the edge of the bed. 

 

She wants to protest, wants to squirm away, even reasons with herself to turn the tables and give him another blowjob. Instead she lifts her hips when he pulls at the waistband of her pants, lets him pull down her government issue underwear and spreads her legs slightly when he places a hot palm over her thigh. 

 

He pays no attention to the cell door as he places his index and middle finger into her mouth and makes her suck. His face is neutral, but his eyes darken as he places his fingers against her entrance and slides in. Her legs close automatically, but he forces them open again with a stern look and and a firm hand against her thigh. 

 

She tries to breathe through her nose, tries to keep her heart from beating out of control as he fucks his fingers slowly into her, but he curls his fingers up and around, hitting her sweet spot with dogged determination. A barely audible whine gets lodged at the back of her throat and she tips her chin down to her chest to try and regain some control. 

 

Someone walks past them in the corridor, but neither of them looks up and whoever it is doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop either, increasing the speed and pressure of his strokes, flicking his thumb over her clit and making her legs shake. 

 

“Hush, sweetheart,” he whispers, nosing the side of her throat. She has to bite down on her lip to stop any sound from escaping. 

 

He presses the flat of his thumb down firmly, rubbing tight, fast circles and she can’t stop her hand from flying down to his wrist, feeling the tendons tense and flex. 

 

She comes with a dampened gasp, her cunt clamping down around his fingers. He leans in and bites hard into the junction between her neck and her shoulder, marking her deeply. 

 

“You smell so fucking heavy,” he mouths into her skin, still pumping his fingers slowly in and out of her, making her twitch. 

 

“ _Please_ ,” she breathes, tightening her hand around his wrist. 

 

He pulls back, eyes shot and mouth drooping. He takes his time dragging his fingers out of her, her whole body shivering as he finally pulls out completely.

 

“I don’t feel bad about this either,” he says, voice low.

 

He places his shiny fingers on her cheek, dragging a fat stripe of her own come across her face before shoving them back into her mouth. Her cheeks flash red with embarrassment as she tastes her own arousal on him.

 

“Tomorrow it’s my turn again.” 

 

* * *

 

Guilt is logged at the back of her brain somewhere, telling her she gave in too easily, that she shouldn’t be enjoying this, that she shouldn’t be so enthusiastically sucking his cock. She pushes it down, reminds herself that who she is and who she needs to be to survive are two different things. 

 

She’s been here for weeks now, and she’s been left alone, just like he promised. By everyone except from him. He gets this dark look in his eyes, and she instantly knows he wants her. He’s not gentle about the way he forces his cock down her throat, or the way he shows his hand down her pants and pushes his thick fingers into her. He’s ruthless about forcing her to come, almost as if he’s determined to return the favour. But he doesn’t force her to do anything else. One time he got a bit loose in the showers and licked her out until her knees gave out, his fingers tracing her asshole, but he settled for coming in thick streams on her tits rather than pushing her further.

 

She learns that his first name is Bellamy when Murphy slips up, but she never calls him that, and he never calls her Clarke. He tells her almost nothing about himself, but she finds herself leaning in to overhear other people talking about him. It soon dawns on her that almost no one knows anything about him either, at least not prior to arriving in prison. All the stories she hears lets her know that Bellamy Blake is a man born with a talent for violence. There’s stabbings, eyes gouged out, broken limbs and more things that should make her cringe,but it doesn’t. Violence is currency here, and if anything it makes her feel safer. He wouldn’t hurt her, not like that. 

 

In fact, she feels so safe that she relaxes, gets sloppy. She only realises her mistake when she’s exiting the toilets and she is yanked back forcibly by her hair. It feels like an explosion in her skull when her head hits the floor, she has to scramble to stay conscious. Adrenaline kicks in and she lashes out wildly, hitting solid muscle. Before she has a chance to protect herself a sharp, powerful kick to her stomach knocks all the air out of her, leaving her gasping. 

 

It happens quickly after that, a couple more blows land on her head and ribs, disorienting her and making it almost impossible to fight back when her attacker starts ripping clothes off her. Her breasts are exposed to the cold air, her pants are halfway down her thighs and all she can think is how stupid she was for not checking if she was being watched.

 

Her body goes into shutdown, becoming numb to the pain and to the hands roaming over her body, focusing only on breathing in and out, closing off any sensory impressions. She’s so focused in on herself that it takes her a few moments to realise that the hands have gone. She  turns her head a little, cracking her eyes open slowly, blinking away tears. Blake is towering above her, blood dripping down from his hand all the way to the tip of the toothbrush sharpened into a fatal point. His face is covered in so many tiny drops of blood she’s having trouble separating blood spatter from freckles. She can barely make out Vinson, McCreary’s muscle, staggering off clutching his throat.

 

She starts shaking violently, her breath pitchy and fast. He scoops her up from the floor, wrapping his bloody arms around her. He folds her arms across her chest, pressing her tightly against him. Her tears come hard and fast, his breath warm against her back as she cries hysterically. He doesn’t try to comfort her, just holds her firmly against his chest as she tries to control her panic. He rocks her slowly, breathing slow and deep, his chest rising and falling steadily. Eventually it calms her, her own breathing falling into the same rhythm. 

 

He holds her for a bit longer, until she stops crying and only sniffles. When she looks down she’s still undressed, bloody handprints all over her arms and chest. She shifts her hips slightly, feeling his hard cock pressed against her ass. She gasps again, but this time it’s not from fear.

 

She’s not sure what she’s doing but she can’t resist grinding her ass back against him, feeling his cock slide between her ass cheeks. He grunts into her hair, but makes no move to meet her. She grinds back again, her cunt throbbing heavily. His grip on her tightens, but he still doesn’t move. She leans her head back against his shoulder, arching her back and pushing her tits out. This time he can’t resist, his hand flying up to palm her breast.

 

She moans lowly as his fingers move deftly over her nipple, smearing blood all over her. She arches her neck so he can slot his mouth over the spot he always comes back to, red and angry at the junction of her throat and shoulder. He bites into her skin and jerks his hips up and she can feel herself soaking his prison uniform.

 

He drops the bloodied shiv to the floor and pulls her up so they’re standing. Her pants are pooled around her ankles, but she kicks them off as he walks her over to one of the shower stalls, still clutching her tightly to his chest. He pushes her up against the tiles, one hand palming her tits, the other sliding down her stomach to her slit.

 

Normally he’s all talk, but he stays completely quiet as he slides his fingers through her folds. She pushes her ass back against him, desperate to feel his cock inside her.

 

“Please, Bellamy,” she breathes, her legs trembling from adrenaline and arousal.

 

His breath hitches and his fingers pause for a moment. She holds her breath too, and doesn’t exhale until his hands finally leave her cunt to pull at his pants. She feels the soft skin of his cock against her back, longs to touch it, to feel it, but doesn’t dare look back.

 

She widens her stance a little as his hands drop to her ass, stroking his big hands over her hypersensitive skin. He presses his lips against her shoulder before positioning himself against her entrance. He pushes into her slowly, his cock straining against her. She takes a deep breath marvelling at the feeling, at the tense stretch of her pussy around him.

 

“Fuck,” he huffs against her back, his fingers digging into her hips almost painfully. 

 

He snaps his hips roughly, and a sweet, dull ache spreads in her gut. He snaps his hips again, faster this time and she can’t help the swear words that drop from her lips like stones. 

 

“Gotta keep quiet,” he warns, but he doesn’t give her a chance to recover, just keeps fucking into her hard and fast.

 

She tries to keep quiet, scrambles to keep her grip on the tile wall, but he drives into her deep, his cock hitting her just right with each snap of his hips.

 

“Fuck, Bell, fuck,” she babbles mindlessly, her pussy clinging to him.

 

He clamps a hand over her mouth, the metallic smell hitting her at once. The moan that comes out of her as his other hand closes around her windpipe is successfully muffled. He crowds her up against the wall, flexing his fingers around her throat lightly. Her tits scrape against the tiles and he keeps pounding into her so hard she can barely keep her feet on the ground.

 

Her head starts to spin as he puts pressure on the sides on her throat with his massive hand, and she comes hard and fast, her cunt clenching around his cock. She feels him swell and then spill into her, his head dropping hard on her shoulder. His breath is harsh and short and warm against her skin. His bloody hand is still covering her mouth.

 

She starts to shake again, tears in free fall down her cheeks and onto his hand. He pulls out quickly and folds himself around her again. He flicks on the shower and places her under the warm water. The blood washes off her, the drain circling red, then pink, then clear. His uniform is soaked, but his hands are their normal colour again. He holds her until she stops shaking, then wraps a towel around her.

 

When she finally has the guts to look him in the eye, there is a darkness she’s never seen on his face before. She can’t tell if he’s angry or sad.

 

“Thank you,” she manages, voice a little rough.

 

“A deal’s a deal, Princess,” he says, eyes flickering down to the floor. 

 

She’s exhausted, in pain, but still feeling the endorphins in her system so she leans in, captures his lips with hers, sliding her tongue against his in a soft kiss.

 

“Don’t do that,” he says, pushing her back gently from her shoulders. “That’s not what this is.”

 

He blinks several times, rests his hands on his hips and keeps his eyes on the floor between them.

 

“Bell,” she says, pleading a little.

 

“Don’t call me that,” he says, jaw tightening. “I’m not that guy.”

 

She looks at him in confusion, her head already pounding, suddenly feeling like he’s the one that’s kicked her in the stomach.

 

“I’m not a good guy, ok?” he says, voice hardening. “There are no good guys in here.”

 

She crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling very naked in front of him.

 

“I’m not a good guy either,” she says, but hates the way her voice sounds so small.

 

“See, I think you are,” he says, softer. “And I’m here for the rest of my life, no chance of parole. You’re out in a few years, probably sooner.”

 

He runs a hand through his hair, before finally looking up at her. His face is impassive. 

 

“You better put your clothes back on,” he says, handing her the tattered uniform. 

 

She dresses in silence, while he looks away. She can’t stop the fresh tears welling up in her eyes, streaking her flushed cheeks. She goes to wipe them off with the back of her hand when his strong grip on her wrist stops her. 

 

“It’s better if you don’t,” he says calmly, though he looks pained. 

 

He doesn’t have to explain, the rest of the ward seeing them come back from the showers together, her clothes torn and her eyes red from crying sends a message. Vinson in the infirmary with a sudden serious neck injury sends another. 

 

He picks up the crude shiv, still coated in blood, and slides it into his pocket. When they walk back into the rec room there are no cat calls, no whispers, no crude comments. She curls up in her cot, dragging the blankets over her, tears still falling from her eyes. 

 

Before she falls asleep he strokes his thumb over her cheeks, wiping away her tears. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You never did listen to me,” he mutters, looking down at her through heavy lashes. “You could’ve walked away. I made it so easy for you.”
> 
> “Not as easy as you think,” she says, uncrossing her arms and straightening so she’s closer to him. She can smell him from here, cigarettes and soap as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long awaited I know...

Metal scrapes against metal as the locks slide open and the hinges groan heavily from releasing the sliding prison doors.  Claustrophobia prickles under her skin like an old familiar itch as the doors clank shut again behind her, but she manages not to jump. A guard escorts her to the visitation room, points her towards one of the tables and indicates for her to sit before retreating to the back of the room. The visitation room is empty today, just two other tables with families quietly talking a few tables down. She takes a deep sigh, trying to still some of the nervous jitters that have been building steadily since she set foot back in max.

 

When the door leading into the prison proper opens, there is no suppressing the way her body jerks back. It’s been 4 years, but suddenly it feels more like 4 days. He looks the same, maybe a little more muscular, the angles of his face a little sharper. His hair is longer, but the darkness in his eyes is the same. He looks at her with blank indifference, surveying her from top to toe as she stands to greet him. She can’t be sure, but there is a small flicker of something in his eyes as he drags them up her body. Hunger maybe. Or worse, regret. 

 

“Nice dress, Princess,” he says with a lazy smirk. She can do nothing to stop the blush rising in her cheeks. She feels warm all over, the menacing rasp of his voice slamming into her like a fist. She fights the urge to pull her dress down her legs. 

 

"Good to see you, Blake,” she says, mostly to test her voice. Not too shaky, but definitely too breathy, giving too much away already. 

 

“Is it?” he drawls, sliding down on the chair in front of her. His eyes feel like hot pokers against her skin. “You miss this place so much that you had to come back and see it?”

 

He’d been right about her, she’d only spent 7 months here before she was up for parole and out for good. He hadn’t touched her again since that time in the showers, but neither had anyone else. 

 

“Or did you miss me?” he says when she doesn’t reply, his voice low and needling. 

 

His hands are resting on the table between them, big and rough, small silvery scars on the back of them creating an abstract lattice pattern. The knuckles on his right hand are scabbed over, recently too probably, by the looks of the red skin surrounding them. Her cunt clenches down on nothing, and her eyes shoot up to his face as if he’d notice. He only raises his eyebrow slightly, flashing his teeth for a fraction of a moment before tightening his features again. 

 

“I came to tell you that you were wrong,” she says, but it doesn’t come out as snappy as she’d planned on. 

 

“Sounds about right,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair and looking at her expectantly. The smirk on his face is so arrogant that she almost gets up, almost abandons the whole thing, but that small feeling she’s had at the back of her head since she got released keeps her in her chair. 

 

“You could get out of here,” she says, watching how his brow knits and his jaw clicks. He doesn’t seem gratified. 

 

“I had my lawyer look into your case, and Kane thinks there’s a good chance he can reduce your sentence,” she rushes to say, when he remains quiet. 

 

“I’m not innocent, Princess,” he says, his eyes black now. He leans forward, letting his hands drop to the bare skin of her knees, the warmth of them shooting up her thighs. She swallows thickly.

 

“I know.” 

 

She’s read his files, she knows what the hands resting heavily on her knees are capable of. It hadn’t been comfortable reading, but what was worse was that it hadn’t changed how she thought about him. 

 

“Why are you really here, Clarke?” he says, letting his hands slide up her legs in a torturous, slow glide. 

 

She looks around, notes that they’re suddenly alone in the visitation room, bar the two guards who are staring blankly ahead. Goosebumps run down the back of her neck. 

 

“I’m telling you, Kane is going to look into your case,” she says, voice wavering a little as his hands reach her chair, yanking her towards him. 

 

He spreads his legs so she’s trapped between them, letting his hands slide up under her dress, the coarse skin of his palms sending jolts of cold sweat up her spine. 

 

“I don’t think that’s why you’re here at all,” he mumbles, his eyes dropping to her mouth. His fingers reach her panties, his thumbs padding the elastic mindlessly. “You couldn’t stop thinking about me, could you Princess?”

 

She looks up at the guards, but as if on cue they both pop air buds into their ears and move to the far side of the room, studiously avoiding looking at them. His fingers slide past the edge of her panties, her eyes snapping back to Bellamy as he dips a finger through her folds. She can’t stop the gasp that nearly chokes her when he connects with her cunt, the familiar glide of his thick fingers over her, the pressure she can never get right on her own. 

 

“That’s not why I’m here,” she manages, but she can’t even convince herself with the way her voice tightens in her chest and her knees open a fraction for him. 

 

“Bet you thought about this every night as you slept in the bunk beneath me,” he mutters, slipping two fingers easily into her, thumbing softly at her clit. “Bet you thought about this even after you left, at home in your fucking mansion at night.”

 

She shakes her head slightly, but it’s futile, it only makes him pump his fingers into her more insistently, making it hard for her to focus. 

 

“Stop,” she says, breathless, grabbing his wrist and halting him in his tracks. 

 

Behind her the security cameras are whirring, the guards are suspiciously disinterested across the room. A version of this scenario has flitted across her mind in her darkest fantasies, but she can’t let him have this. 

 

He gives her a withering look, his nostrils flaring slightly before pulling his fingers out of her. One by one he puts his fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean, his eyes fluttering shut as he tastes her. She can’t stop the shudder that runs through her. 

 

“I shouldn’t have come,” she mutters, pushing her chair back and getting up to leave.

 

She’d expected some gratitude, just a hint of recognition of the significance of her efforts. A slight shift in their power balance. If she’s completely honest with herself, she wanted him to look at her with something other than possession and pity in his eyes. Instead he looks at her like he always does, like he’s measuring her, like he knows exactly what she expected and has no intention of giving it to her. 

 

He gets up too, moves around the table quickly, blocking her path to the exit. The guards don’t even flinch. He crowds her, the hard muscle in his chest and abs like a wall she can’t get around. He still smells the same, like prison soap and cigarettes. Even after this many years he feels like an almost to her, someone she can’t simply walk away from. 

 

“No you shouldn’t have,” he says, moving closer and forcing her to back up slowly. “You should’ve forgotten about me a long time ago.”

 

His voice catches on something, suddenly less taunting and more sincere. There’s a deep frown wedged between his eyebrows, his chin is tilted upwards in defiance. Her back hits the wall.

 

“But now that you’re here I can’t just let you leave.”

 

Her eyes follow his Adam’s apple as it bobs in his throat, too wired to look up. He pauses for just a moment to let her say no, to push him off, to alert the guards, anything. She does neither of those things, just lets her head fall back against the wall and her eyes travel upwards until they find his. There’s a mix of heat and disappointment in his eyes, but before she has time to process that, his hands drop to her hips and he hauls her up the wall so she’s forced to wrap her legs around his waist for purchase.

 

He’s got her pinned against the wall, partly obscured to the rest of the room by a large bookcase. Feet shuffle at the back of the room, and she knows instinctively that the guards have turned their backs. He throws a quick glance up at the security camera closest to them and she hears it whirr before the lens turns away from them. He’s planned this, she realises. He’d known the moment she’d requested the visit, made deals, traded in some of his power, indebted himself for this. She swallows hard, feels the length of him twitch against her bare thigh and suddenly knows this couldn’t have gone any other way. 

 

She’s almost ashamed at how obviously her body responds to him, the heat of her cunt seeping through the rough fabric of his prison uniform, the stiff peaks of her nipples pressed tightly against the thin material of her lace bra and silk dress. He bucks his hips up against her, noses a hot trail down the side of her throat, baring his teeth against her sensitive skin.

 

“You get all dressed up for me, Princess?” he whispers against her collarbone, his hands reaching under her ass and dragging the skirt of her dress up her thighs. “Wanted me to know you’re not the same girl who got on her knees so willingly and sucked my cock for protection?”

 

The tight fitting, expensive silk dress and her matching lace underwear had made her feel powerful when she’d walked in here, made her feel like he’d finally look at her with a bit of respect. In two seconds he’s stripped her bare again, reduced her to the worst version of herself, the vulnerable, desperate thing she’d become in here. The way her slick saturates his uniform when he bucks up against her again proves it again. 

 

“Fuck you, Bellamy,” she huffs, tightening her legs around his waist to get more friction, to get him to shut up.

 

He cocks an eyebrow at her, a hint of amusement dancing across his eyes. 

 

“If that makes you feel better,” he mutters, before grazing his teeth against the column of her throat. 

 

The sound of fabric ripping echoes in her ears, feeling the slide of lace against her thigh before she’s bared to him. The gasp that falls from her lips comes out closer to a moan than she’d like. Her face is burning hot, no doubt her cheeks are flushed pink but she can’t seem to care anymore as her cunt throbs for him, wanting, longing, craving.

 

He doesn’t make her wait, he slides into her so easily, as if he belongs there, as if he’s waited as long as her for this. A small shiver runs down his neck as he bottoms out, turning his head away from her to hide it, but when she lets her fingers follow the path down his spine he can’t stop the goosebumps that erupt in their wake. 

 

He drives into her harder, faster, so she has to grab on to the collar of his prison uniform to hang on, the angle of his cock hitting her perfectly with each thrust. He pulls almost desperately at her dress, dragging the delicate silk and lace down with harsh movements. The scabs on the back of his knuckles graze deliciously over her sensitive nipples, making her buck against him, closing her thighs around him even tighter. 

 

“Shit,” he mumbles into her skin, the vibration of his deep voice making her clench around him. He lets a soft groan out before his mouth closes over one of her nipples, his tongue twirling and flicking over puckered flesh, driving her to the brink of insanity. 

 

“Please, Bell,” she gasps, letting her head fall back against the concrete wall, oblivious to the world beyond them. Guards, cameras, bolted down chairs and reinforced steel gates all disappear as he rucks her up, as he brings her higher and higher, closer to the edge. All she can se is dark curls hanging heavily over his eyes, the way his mouth droops more and more, his blown pupils focusing in on her, burning holes in her head. The world narrows down to his breathing mixing with hers, close but not too close, always just out of reach. Her cunt throbs around him, his lashes fluttering to the same beat and his thrusts getting shallower. 

 

When he comes his face relaxes completely for the briefest moment, opens up and makes him look vulnerable. His features soften and even out, the frown disappears from between his eyes, his jaw loosens, his eyes are wide and soft. She realises she’s never looked at his face when he’s come before, but her own orgasm wipes her mind clean before she can dwell on it, wave after wave of pleasure running through her body. 

 

He doesn’t look at her when he lets her back down to the floor, turns away from her when he dresses himself. She straightens her dress while scanning the room surreptitiously. The guards still have their backs turned. 

 

“Always a pleasure, Princess,” he smirks at her, but his grin is a little unsteady. She sees a small scrap of lace disappear into his pocket, her panties nowhere to be found on the floor. 

 

“Don’t come back,” he says, his voice a little hard around the edges, the grin dropped. “Ok?”

 

He looks her in the eyes then, his face unreadable for once. There is no malice in his voice, no pity, but his words still sink like stones in her gut. Even as he turns away from her, motions to the guards to let him back to his cell, back retreating into the prison she knows she’s already given him everything she has. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a sunny but cold day when she’s back at the prison again. Brutal concrete walls and barbed wire rises high against the blue skies, jarring against the ancient forest it’s grown out of. She still feels cold to her bones just looking at the walls that hold so much history, so much violence. She takes a deep breath and leans against the cool metal of her rental, crossing her arms around herself as if to hold the memories at arms length. 

 

It’s quiet here, they must have cut back on rec time again as there’s no shouts or sounds of voices coming from the yard beyond the walls. The only sign of life is the armed guard up in the tower, who’s already given her a cursory glance before turning back to focus on the prison itself. When the gates finally roll open, it startles her, the squeak and groan of metal making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. 

 

He looks different out of his uniform. A crisp white t-shirt and black jeans that fit tightly over his hips giving her a strange insight into what he was before this place. He looks around, confusion written all over his face. He spots her straight away, his steps slowing and taking her in carefully. He pauses and fishes a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it and taking a long drag before his eyes fall on her again. He looks cold without a jacket. 

 

The prison gates shut behind him with a loud clang, but he doesn’t look back. He takes a few more steps towards her, looking around still. 

 

“She’s working,” she finally says, and he nods slowly, like he wasn’t expecting anything else anyway. “Octavia will come see you tomorrow.”

 

He nods again, but his eyes flicker away from her. His arms are covered in goosebumps. 

 

“Only if you want her to,” she clarifies, and he finally looks at her then. 

 

“Ok,” he says, his voice raspy. 

 

He flicks away his half smoked cigarette, stepping closer. 

 

“You never did listen to me,” he mutters, looking down at her through heavy lashes. “You could’ve walked away. I made it so easy for you.”

 

“Not as easy as you think,” she says, uncrossing her arms and straightening so she’s closer to him. She can smell him from here, cigarettes and soap as always. 

 

“I’m still not a good guy,” he says, and it’s not false humility, nor is it an understatement. She knows he’s capable of terrible things. The longer she lives, the more she realises what people are capable of when cornered.  

 

“Maybe there are no good guys,” she smiles tightly, cause she hasn’t felt like one in years. 

 

He takes one last step towards her then, sliding one large hand over her cheek and tangling his fingers into her hair. His mouth is warm against hers, his lips surprisingly soft when everything else about him his hard and unyielding. She opens for him, lets him slide his tongue into her mouth, soft and searching. She melts into him, his arm wrapping her up tightly, protectively. 

 

He tastes like blood and regret and she knows he’s probably the biggest mistake she’ll ever make, but she can’t stop herself from making it. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> leaving this open ended for a possible epilogue which I still haven't completely figured out :)


End file.
